episode 12: pullman coach, franklin face
grand central rendezvous, swelling crowds for the early commute back to the pastures. dent stood, fresh zenga shirt, off-rose, three buttons loose, grey thick as thieves custom suit. he’d come with game, even in his posture, half-akimbo, cloris at his back, hand on shoulder, any fool at mars a week previous wouldn’t have recognized him. renee perked up over cup coffee, “cloris you must have sucked all night for the man to look like that.” cloris removed her hand from dent’s shoulder, reached around to renee’s high behind, gave it a double pat. darby’s leica caught this, and then his jaw caught a shopping bag from ms. du lac. “is everything keepable to you, even the rubbers?” “you, my lady, are the only thing i’m not keepin’ on this trip,” said darby, pushing back the bag from his face. olen and tamar returned from a newsstand, the times and two coffees, splitting the copy between, not making eye contact. something was amiss in the house of o.
dent hypothesized, “hey o, you butter her brains after your drinky last night or what?” olen looked over steamed glasses, “awoke naked in her roommate’s bed, my behind sore, groin abraded.” “abraded? you mean she braided your curlies, or am i just plain stupid before my coffee?”, dent remarked with incredulity. big dick, small vocab was michael dent’s rep. olen turned away, two steps with dent. “the ladies tied me down, blindfolded. i think one of them put something in my ass. i might have licked, erm liked it.” dent spun on a heel to pull faces with cloris. “tamar, pick your lids up from behind that paper. did you bugger my star architect?” ms. naser held fast to her times, leaned around the metro section, “prostate is a lovely thing, isn’t it o?”. ifa added a line, “you mean you let her stick…aw hell, that’s the shit, boy. straight men are cowards for their ass.” the samurai were spending too much time discussing mr. ragnarsson’s anal, and then the call came out metro north 330, hudson line boarding at gate four. dent lead the way, his heels ticking time for the crew to follow. everyone present, accounted for.
“tamar, tamar…”, cloris was curling a short finger at ms. naser. “tell me this, did he like it, or was it a gay kind of like it? i’ve done the same to mike and he screams murder.” tamar turned her head, looked down at the paper, “he was receptive, especially once the lights went out. not gay, we think.” olen sat alone by the bathroom, taking short trips every ten minutes to the john. nobody knew what he was doing, that is, until mr. mcclure stepped in quickly behind him. they’d not ever spoken. “girl do you like a dog?”, asked an eyebrow up darby. “her roommate put a vibrator by my ass, not in it, i think. what’s a yay-gur? we did a lot of yay-gur?” olen rubbed his temples, leaning on the john sink. “jagermeister is lucifer’s gift to the not yet gay,” remarked a shit grin darby mcclure, enjoying his position as big brother. olen bent over at the waist a bit, “i’m not close to gay, but maybe my arse is. tamar had her, well, they both were, and the lights were off. i couldn’t move.” darby stood back as far as he could step, put his hands on olen’s shoulders, lifted him up to standing. “keep at it, boy. keep that tiny arse going if it gets you red. know why my ink is red,” darby pointed at his forearm, ” ’cause I love the puss. red on pink, the queen’s colors. a true queen, that is.” none of the jabber had olen any better with himself. his holes felt stretched, his eyes ached. something of a sense of accomplishment sat at the back of his mouth. he put a hand into his pocket, came out with a strange piece of paper. the train slowed and rocked. on the paper, a crude grid, y axis labeled holes, x axis labeled dicks. darby snatched the info, hooted like a baboon, “mr. o, their three holes to your one. you won. guess the arse only made it fair.” olen left the paper with darby, who followed him out into the aisle. “ms naser,” olen murmured, “i’d like to see you in my orifice,” a line stolen from lethal weapon. she stood, took his hand, and the john door closed.
ifa sat beside dent, fingers up. “two is that we get the gut going immediately, before any talking. i’ve got men ready five minutes out.” dent nodded and spoke, “i’ve got to swing by the auctioneer’s and then hit the bank. dad’s box, the cash, and the keys. the family is in bermuda. we are go green on this.” ifa wanted to make clear that the crew needed to see the site in progress. reason being, the police would show at some point and appearances, well, they’re everything. some yellow tape, which was bound to appear under the hands of mcclure, is discouraging for most average design folks. ifa had it so the project looked and smelled legal. the deets they’d sort out once the auction closed, an auction nobody but michael p. dent would be attending, that is, if darby mcclure had his way. dent replied in spearmint tones, “sweet ass ifa, just a sweet ass all week.” “skippy, mike. if mr. o can catch his druthers, and keep that dill out of his behind, we’ve got green from here to friday.” ifa knew that the property was closed to onlookers, the listing dropped, the keys to be picked up. it wouldn’t take much to tear this hunk of steel beam and plaster down to the ribs, but in time for what, that was the question. ifa was drawing timetables in her mind, red pen, red memories. cloris handed renee a note. it read, “remember, darby is a tool not a weapon.” renee put the paper between her thighs, squeezed, and stuffed it in darby’s talking mouth. message understood.
the 330 arrived in peekskill without incident. the samurai disembarked, no luggage. weather held at overcast, with green trees leaning on each other as friends would waiting for a bus. michael p. dent knelt in a semi-circle of shoes, spoke up. “today my family fortune gets a new mouth below the chin. you each have a part to play. see cloris for cash. i’ll meet you at the site, half five.” dent strode off into the station, out the door, and into a waiting town car. the mission got heavy and velvet immediately following his exit. renee clutched darby’s ink, dug nails. olen was at last relaxed, knowing that his dick did some good work for once. he was ready, pen & paper. ifa whispered into the left ear of a perky cloris archangeli, who still sported the burberry, yet with yellow chiffon underneath. they smoked, those who did smoke. some chatted under breath. nobody had a goddamned clue.
touch me and i’ll sue, quomodo returns tomorrow! dent disappears like jolly roger. ifa opens the playbook. cloris doles franklin’s face. renee leashes her painted treat. mr. o gathers steam amongst the kindling. it’s to be an affair. quomodo, cockney slang for quomodo.